


Amends, or The Boy Who Lived...Again

by m_steelgrave



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, gore but not too bad, kind of zombie Harry, mention of major character deaths, we're not talking the Saw movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_steelgrave/pseuds/m_steelgrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't kill something that's already dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amends, or The Boy Who Lived...Again

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Halloween 2004 and posted on my LJ/website under the same title. It's a quick little read with everything nicely tied up in a bow at the end.
> 
> When this was written, we didn't know about the Horcruxes yet, and we didn't know that Harry had to "die" once to be able to defeat Voldemort. I was psychic, I swear.

It was not the first time Draco had done something against his better judgment, but agreeing to meet Hermione Granger at the corner table of Skuttle & Bane's was one of the more reckless things on that list. Conditions in the Wizarding world being what they were, being seen in the company of a Ministry employee was as dangerous as traveling in the company of Death Eaters. Draco didn't relish either, and his nerves were already standing very much at attention when a strange wizard scurried over to his table and sat down.

Draco fixed his patented icy stare on the man, who was scrawny and of average appearance, swathed in the cheapest off-the-rack robes a wizard could buy. "Shove off, I'm meeting someone."

To his surprise, the wizard grinned briefly. "Draco, it's me. Hermione."

Nonplussed, Draco leaned back in his chair, wordlessly making a show of having his wand within easy reach. "Prove it," he said quietly.

The wizard sighed with impatience. "I punched you in the face third year. You made Crabbe and Goyle promise not to tell anyone."

Draco nodded, satisfied with the wizard's—Hermione's—identity. "You look different," he drawled from behind his dingy glass. "Haircut?"

"Polyjuice. I've got a little less than half an hour until it wears off. We have to make this fast," she said.

"By all means."

"I have a proposition for you."

Before she could continue, Draco chuckled. "Who would have thought Hermione Granger would be propositioning little old me?" Hermione ignored him, pulling out a scrap of parchment with a few words scribbled on it. She handed it to him across the table.

"Do you recognize the title of this book?"

Draco glanced at the parchment, pale eyebrows shooting up behind his fringe. "Yeah, it's in my father's collection," he said. "Demonic cults, other dimensions, necromancy, that sort of thing. Heavy stuff."

"I need you to get it for me," said Hermione. Draco laughed once, amazed at Hermione's brashness and a little out of nerves.

"One, no. And two, are you out of your mind? Even reading certain parts of that book can burn out your eyes."

Even with another wizard's appearance, Hermione's intellectual indignation was clear. "Not if you take precautions," she insisted. 

"You're really scary sometimes, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Hermione replied with a small smile. Sensing Draco's reluctance, she offered, "I'm willing to clear your records with the Ministry. You could disappear and no one would stop you."

"What do you want with a book like that, anyway?" Draco expected her to launch into some detailed explanation or another, as Hermione was wont to do when she had an idea in her teeth.

Her reply, however, was strangely concise. "It has the original spell Wormtail used to give Voldemort back his body. I want to modify it to resurrect the spirit within the body instead."

Brows furrowed, Draco replied, "Why would you...?"

And then Hermione's determined look suddenly made sense. Realization chilled him. "No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not."

Hermione's fists were clenched on the table. "I can bring him back, Draco," she whispered fervently.

"I repeat, have you gone completely mad?" said Draco, his voice rising. Checking himself and glancing around to be sure no one was paying them undue attention, he went on, "There are rules against this sort of thing, and I'm not talking about the Ministry, either. I'm talking laws of nature that say, 'thou shalt not resurrect the dead.' It isn't right."

"It wasn't right that he died in the first place!" Hermione hissed. "It wasn't supposed to happen that way. I want to fix it."

Draco shook his head. "There are some things you can't fix," he said.

"And this isn't one of them. Look," said Hermione. The fight went out of her, betraying how tired she looked, even in another person's body. "All I need is the book. You don't have to help me beyond that."

"Why do you need me to get the book? You're Madame Polyjuice, why don't you waltz in there and get it yourself?"

"I could," Hermione admitted. She looked as if she wanted to take his hand, but thought better of it upon remembering her appearance. "I thought you would want to know I was trying to do this. Since you were the one who—"

Draco snorted and looked away. "Oh, save it."

"You're afraid, aren't you?" It wasn't an accusation, though Draco bristled.

"You're not? Of course I'm afraid, I'm fucking terrified! Do you have any idea what could happen if something goes wrong?"

"I've researched it," said Hermione.

"Oh, you've researched it. I feel infinitely better." Hermione's mouth tightened, and Draco knew he had hit home. Only slightly repentant, he asked, "Does that mean you'd be willing to kill him again if he doesn't come back right?"

Hermione's gaze never wavered. "Could you?"

"Someone's going to have to," said Draco. He folded up the scrap of parchment with the title of the book in question and slipped it into the pocket of his robes. Hermione was correct in assuming this move as Draco's unspoken agreement.

"We have to move quickly," she said. "The mortuary preservation spells are timed to cease after three months. That gives us two weeks before decomposition begins."

Draco did not look at her again. "You'd best get out of here. Your Polyjuice is wearing off." Hermione looked as if she wanted to say more, but let it go. Draco watched her duck out of the tavern and disappear into the crowd of Knockturn Alley before he finished his drink with a grimace.

"Shit," he said to the empty chair across from him.

* * *

It took Draco nearly a week before he had the opportunity to pilfer his father's library undetected. Hermione was breathless with excitement as she chalked an arcane symbol of protection on the floor and stood carefully upon it, leafing through the book. Draco was positive she would spontaneously combust or worse, but she located the spell in question without incident.

They gathered obscure potion ingredients for three days after that. Draco scoured Knockturn Alley and various other London shops of ill repute, purchasing items that earned him suspicious looks from many shop keepers.

"Do I even want to know where you managed to find melampode?" Hermione asked as she slivered the leaves in question.

"Probably not," said Draco. He was making every effort to focus on the making of the potion and not on the body that currently lay on the other side of the room, wrapped in a set of Hermione's flowered bedsheets. When he asked her how she had obtained it, she assured him it was a simple matter of a summoning spell. This did little to dispel Draco's thoughts of Hermione digging in a graveyard in the middle of the night, covered in moldy earth.

"That's the last of it," she declared, wiping her hands on the hem of her robe. "We let that simmer for thirteen minutes before adding the rest."

"This seems as good a time as any to ask what comes next."

"The first part of the potion is fairly straightforward restorative draught," Hermione said, all too happy to explain the process. "You could probably drink this and regrow a limb if you'd lost one."

"Fantastic. I'll keep that in mind."

"The next part is the tricky one," Hermione went on, handing him a parchment on which she had copied the spell. He glanced over it, scowling.

"Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy...this is impossible," he said.

Hermione pointed to the final three ingredients of the potion. "Ah, but what do bone, flesh and blood make?"

"A body," said Draco. Then, as things fell into place in his head, "But we're not trying to make a _body_." Hermione nodded.

"So the potion as written is meant to restore a physical form to a disembodied spirit. We're trying to do the opposite, to restore a spirit to an existing body. We just have to rethink the catalyst ingredients."

It made sense, Draco had to admit. "So we're thinking in spiritual terms. Spirits. Essences," he said thoughtfully. "Ghosts."

"Exactly. It's like summoning a ghost, and using the restorative potion to make it stick around."

"Hermione, let me ask you something," Draco said as she began clearing the workspace. "Why do the dead remain on this plane as ghosts?"

"Because they're afraid of death," she answered by rote, as if they were in class. After a moment, she added, "Or because they have unfinished business here."

"Was Harry afraid of death?"

"No. Death was a part of his life, at the risk of sounding morbid." She chuckled wryly, glancing around the room at all the potion ingredients, forbidden spellbooks, and the body in the corner. "Though I suppose it's a bit late for me to worry about that," she added.

"Right, so Harry wouldn't have stayed around because he wasn't afraid of death," said Draco. "And as far as the unfinished business theory is concerned, if defeating Voldemort and saving the world as we know it wasn't enough unfinished business to keep him here, maybe...he was meant to die."

Hermione looked up at him from her work. He wanted to look away, to look anywhere but at her, but he stood his ground.

"You agreed to help me with this," she said. Draco knew his logic had hit home, because she did not attempt to contradict him.

"I know," he sighed. "And I will, it's just...Hermione, this feels wrong."

"That never stopped you from doing anything before," she pointed out, and he looked away. After glancing at her watch, she said, "It's time to add the rest. That includes Harry."

She raised her wand to levitate the body into the large cauldron, but Draco stopped her with a hand on her arm. "No, I'll do it. We shouldn't risk casting another spell while we're in the middle of this one." She eyed him strangely, but lowered her wand, watching as Draco gingerly lifted the prone form from the sheets and carried it to the cauldron. He placed it in the simmering liquid, wincing as steam and sparks shot toward his face.

"Now, the adjustments made to the catalyst ingredients are slight," Hermione continued when Draco stepped back. She lifted a glass vial of something that glowed green. She intoned, "Essence of Lazarus, faithfully gathered, you will restore our friend." She poured the liquid into the cauldron, where the potion turned a deep green. "Tears of the servant, sorrowfully shed, you will revive your master." She held up what appeared to be an old jam pot and poured its contents, clear and shimmering, into the cauldron. The potion hissed and turned red.

"House elf tears," Hermione whispered upon noticing Draco's inquisitive look. In her authoritative, spellcasting voice she began again, "Blood of the enemy," and picked up a knife. She grabbed Draco's left arm.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, pulling free of her grasp.

"Bleeding you," she replied, taking hold of him again.

Again, Draco jerked free. "Isn't Voldemort his enemy?" he asked, his stomach somewhere around his knees.

Hermione brushed her hair out of her eyes in impatience. "Yes, but I'd like to know how you plan to get Voldemort to bleed for you. You're the next best thing."

"But I'm not really his...hells, that hurt," he hissed as Hermione succeeded in holding him still long enough to slice the crook of his elbow. She gathered a few drops of blood in a vial and carried them back to the cauldron.

"Blood of the enemy," she repeated, "willingly given, you will restore your foe." She let the blood drip into the cauldron, and suddenly the potion turned a white so bright they had to shield their eyes.

Steam filled the room. Hermione was coughing, but Draco pushed her aside and waited at the cauldron's side, wand drawn. Everything had grown eerily silent, every shuffle on the stone floor muffled by the impossibly thick steam. Draco's eyes were watering—because of the steam, he told himself firmly. And then, as if someone had pulled the plug from a drain, the steam began to descend into the cauldron in a whirlwind.

There was a splash, and a shuddering gasp as of someone waking from a nightmare.

Despite every nerve in his body imploring him to prepare for whatever was in the cauldron to leap out and attack, Draco lowered his wand. "Oh, my God," he said.

"Harry!" Hermione rushed forward with a sob and shoved Draco out of the way as she helped the man in the cauldron lift his head out of the liquid.

* * *

Hary slept for three days. Hermione claimed it was his body readjusting to being, well, alive. Draco sat in a chair near the window and watched Harry as he slept, his nerves frayed to threads and his voice rough from disuse. Though Hermione was attempting to carry on her daily routine, Draco left the room only for the bare necessities, and sometimes that did not include eating.

Hermione walked to Harry's bedside. She smoothed a wrinkle in the quilt and asked, "How is he?" It was the first time they had spoken since the spell had been cast.

"Not spouting evil magic, if that's what you mean," he said after clearing his throat. "He hasn't even snored. It's eerie."

"If he's not doing anything, why don't you grab a sandwich?" Hermione asked.

"Not hungry."

"I thought you might say that," she replied, and produced a cup of tea. Draco wrinkled his nose.

"Hermione, the last thing I want right now is bloody tea, and not just because you've probably laced it with something."

"Whiskey," said Hermione. At Draco's puzzled expression, she smiled and added, "A calming potion might work adequately, but it won't give you that nice buzz. Mum used to drink that in the winter."

Draco took the cup from her, noting that it did indeed smell of honey and something with a little more bite. "Thank you," he said.

They sat in silence, fascinated by the rise and fall of Harry's chest beneath the blanket. It was a long time before Draco said, "I want some answers, Hermione. You let me think you were asking for my help out of concern for the Death Eater who's lost his favorite enemy. And here all you wanted was my blood. I was hoping you might want me around for my dashing good looks, at least. I'm stung."

Hermione glared at him. "You're insufferable."

"Thank you," he replied, sardonic. 

"Like I said before, if you want out, you're free to walk out at any time. I'll even Obliviate you if you so choose." Hermione looked as if she would be all to happy to hex the memory of Harry's resurrection from Draco's mind. He laughed once, which in turn made her scowl even further.

"I didn't ask while you were in the midst of your mojo," he said, "but why is it so imperative that you bring Potter back? It can't be purely personal. You're too logical for this to be grief."

"As if you would know," Hermione sniffed. 

Draco refused to rise to the bait, however, and simply replied, "Take it from someone who's had a lot to grieve over."

Hermione's indignation faded. "Do you remember the battle at the Department of Mysteries our fifth year? The one that landed your father in Azkaban?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "How could I forget?"

"Do you know what the Death Eaters were after?" Draco said nothing, and Hermione proceeded to relate the prophecy to him. When she finished, Draco simply stared at her, fumbling with the weight of what he had been told.

"So Potter has to be the one to defeat Voldemort," he stated slowly.

"He's the only one who can, according to the prophecy," finished Hermione.

"Bugger," said Draco without much emphasis. "His dying really threw a wrench in things, didn't it?" 

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," came a hoarse voice from the bed. Hermione gasped and Draco drew his wand, face expressionless.

"H-Harry?" Hermione took a step toward the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Shitty, really," Harry said, wincing and rubbing his throat. "Suppose that means I'm alive, then."

"So it would seem," said Draco quietly. He held out his cup of tea.

"Draco," Harry acknowledged, his countenance softening slightly. Draco said nothing, still holding out his tea, still holding his wand in the other hand. Hermione looked from one of them to the other, her brow furrowed, but she left her questions unasked for the moment. Instead she took the tea from Draco and moved to help Harry sit up to drink it. He wanted to try to stand, but his legs buckled in atrophy beneath him.

"You're most likely going to be quite weak for a while," she said as she arranged the pillows behind him, "your body needs some time to adjust."

"How long have I been...you know, dead?" Harry asked, the surreal nature of the question not lost on him. Draco snorted and turned to face the window, his back to the room. He knew he should keep his guard up, and he should certainly not turn his back on a potential enemy, but watching Harry discuss his own death was simply too much. He tightened his grip on his wand.

"Almost exactly three months," said Hermione. Then, tentatively, "Do you remember anything?"

"About dying, or about being dead? I remember both quite clearly," he said. There was a note of what might have been sadness in his voice.

"I remember you dying. I was there," Hermione said. She looked to Draco to point out that he had, as well, but something suddenly occurred to Harry.

"Where's Ron?" he asked.

Hermione was silent for a moment. "Ron was killed shortly after you," she replied at length.

Harry's mouth pressed itself into a tight line. "But you didn't feel the need to bring him back?" Hermione cringed slightly.

"It's not that, Harry," she began.

"It's Voldemort, isn't it? You yanked me out of my afterlife because of Voldemort, and you didn't have time to bring Ron back."

Hermione was on the verge of frustrated tears. "We were only able to bring you back because you were still whole," she ground out.

What she did not say was that Ron had been tortured by Death Eaters until what was left of him was delivered to the Ministry in a bag. The details were unnecessary, however, as her implication hit home with Harry. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I appreciate you bringing me back, it's just..." Harry trailed off, at a loss for words.

Hermione wiped her eyes and nodded. She left the room after a moment.

Harry's eyes turned to Draco, silhouetted motionless at the window. "How have you been?" he asked Draco's back.

"How do you think I've been?" Draco replied flatly, still not turning around.

With a sigh, Harry leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

At the window, Draco did the same.

* * *

Draco awoke slowly, wincing even before opening his eyes as the crick in his neck twinged. Sleeping in chairs was not something human beings were meant to do. He stretched carefully, willing his muscles to come back to life.

"You haven't moved from that chair in four days," Harry said from across the room. Draco froze mid-stretch and opened his eyes to find Harry standing beside the bed, a cup of tea in one hand and a crumpled newspaper in the other.

"I've moved," Draco insisted. He rose from the chair, not bothering to work the tingles out of his legs, and turned to face the window once again. "You weren't even able to sit up this time yesterday," he pointed out over one shoulder.

"You re-master walking a lot faster when you have the motivation of making it to the loo before you piss yourself," said Harry. "I'm not hungry, but I supposed Hermione has to mother me somehow, so she keeps pouring tea in me." Draco fingered his wand in its sheath at his side and watched Harry's pale reflection in the window as silence wound its way between them. He jumped slightly when Harry finally asked, "Is there a reason you won't look at me? I'm not angry at you, you know. For this, or for any of it."

Draco licked dry lips but did not turn around until there was the noise of porcelain shattering behind him. He spun to find the teacup shattered in Harry's grip. A few shards remained, dripping in his fist. When Harry finally brought his bewildered gaze up from the puddle on the floor, Draco had his wand at the ready.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What happened to the cup?" asked Draco, not lowering his wand.

"It broke, what does it look like?"

"It looks like you don't know your own strength," said Draco.

"Or maybe it was just a cheap teacup," Harry replied coolly, bending to pick up the pieces. He glared at Draco through his fringe and added, "For Merlin's sake, why not do it right and pull out the chainsaw?"

"What?" Draco asked, utterly confused.

"Never mind. At least it got you to look at me, didn't it?"

Draco flinched and glanced at the floor. Harry cursed and dropped the shards of porcelain violently into the trash bin. "You think you're the only one who's afraid?" he demanded. "I'm terrified. I just got yanked out of the Elysian Fields to finish a fight I was perfectly content to spend eternity forgetting. I'm breaking things, I can't eat, I'm restless, and I have Hermione all over me, making sure I'm alive and healthy and not developing a craving for brains. And the one person I want to talk to most in the world won't even look at me."

Draco turned back to the window and pressed his forehead against the cool glass in an attempt to ward off his headache. "If I do..." he began quietly, "if I do, and something has gone wrong with the spell and you're not you... I'd rather not see it. I don't want to have to kill you again."

"You mean the way I had to see you that night?" Draco swallowed hard. Before he could answer, arms wrapped around him from behind. He tensed immediately, but when the warmth of another body pressed itself against the length of his back, he relaxed into it. He could feel Harry's warm breath against his neck as he whispered, "It's me, alright. I promise."

Not caring about the screaming muscles in his shoulders, Draco craned his neck to turn and meet Harry's half-lidded gaze. They studied each other for a moment, Draco leaning close enough that he could smell the tea on Harry's breath.

It was then that his left arm chose to explode with pain. He hissed and drew away from Harry, pulling his sleeve up to reveal the Dark Mark burning an angry black against his skin.

His next concern was for Harry, who usually felt the aftershocks of Voldemort's summoning. Harry, however, was watching him without any apparent pain.

"I can't feel it," Harry said, disbelieving. "You're being called, and I can't feel it."

"You could before...?" Draco ground out, not bothering to finish the sentence. It felt odd to think of this point in Harry's existence as being "after death," like on a Muggle timeline.

"Always." Harry closed his eyes and concentrated. "I can't feel him. The connection is gone." After watching Draco grit his teeth against the pain for a moment, he asked, "Aren't you going?"

"No." The answer was flat and final. Draco had dealt with enough death and demons that day. He had no intention of dealing more of them.

Harry smiled faintly and pressed a cool hand to Draco's burning arm like a mother soothing a fevered forehead.

"Well," Draco sighed in relief as the pain eased under Harry's touch, "of the two of us, it's nice to know you're not the mindless slave to Voldemort's bidding." Then, with a slightly disgusted look on his face, "And what was that remark about developing a taste for brains?"

Harry chuckled. "Zombies in Muggle cinema. I'll explain it to you sometime."

* * *

The minute Draco stepped out of Harry's room an hour later, Hermione snagged him. He supposed this was bound to happen, he just wished she would be more careful when shoving him into the kitchen.

"What is going on?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

"I don't—" Draco began, but Hermione held up a finger under his nose.

"And you'd better be honest with me, because if you're not, I will smack you so hard your eyeballs will switch sockets."

Draco closed his mouth and nodded. Hermione stepped away and folded her arms across her chest. "Now, why are you so nervous in there? Do you know something I don't?"

"Are you telling me you're not nervous when you're in the room with the walking dead?" said Draco.

Hermione sighed and ticked points off on her fingers. "First, of course I am, but I'm not walking around with my wand pointed at him. Second, he's not the walking dead, he's as alive as you or I. And third, you're avoiding the question."

"Something's off with him, Hermione. He knows it, too."

"Of course something's off," said Hermione. "He was dead for three months. And as for the spell, nothing could have gone wrong. I double checked every ingredient, every syllable of the spell."

Draco glanced at the floor. "What if something were wrong with one of the catalyst ingredients?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to sound as hypothetical as possible.

"Nothing was wrong with the..." Hermione paused, her eyes narrowing. "What? What was wrong?"

He thought about lying or stalling for time, but thought better of it at the memory of Hermione's earlier threat. "The blood," Draco said at last.

Hermione shook her head. "You gave it willingly," she said. "I gave you the option of leaving and you didn't. That makes you willing."

"That's not it," said Draco. Throwing caution to the wind, he finished, "I'm not Harry's enemy."

"We've been through this, Draco. You may not be Voldemort, but you were the one who—"

"I am about as far from being his enemy as anyone can be," he cut Hermione off, forcing her to meet his eyes and read what remained unsaid in them.

"Oh," she said, her eyes growing wide. Draco watched the pieces, the unanswered questions, come together in her head. In any other situation, it might have been funny. "Oh, my God," she repeated. "When did this happen?"

Draco shrugged. "Does it matter?"

She closed her eyes, her brain already miles ahead and buried in her spellbooks. "I have to figure out how this altered the potion," she muttered, turning to leave.

"No one knew," Draco called after her. "We thought it would be better that way, Hermione."

She paused in the doorway. Though she did not turn to face him, the hurt in her voice was apparent, despite her valiant attempt to bury it. "Keep an eye on him."

Draco waited until she was gone before digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Fuck. _Fuck_ ," he muttered, rummaging through the cupboard and pulling out the bottle of scotch. He was staring absently at the Mark on his arm, debating finding a glass or simply drinking straight from the bottle when there came a quiet knock at the front door of Hermione's flat. He slammed the whiskey on the counter, forgotten as he ran to intercept Hermione.

"No, don't open the—" he called, but by the time he rounded the corner, Hermione had already turned the knob. The door flew open, knocking Hermione into the wall behind her. Draco ran to pick her up off the floor, putting himself between her and the men shadowed in the doorway.

"Aren't you going to ask us in?" Draco was secretly proud of the fact that his knees did not buckle at the sound of that voice. Voldemort stepped into the light, wand drawn, a deceptively friendly smile on his bone-white face. " _Imperio_ ," he intoned, and Draco felt his limbs move of their own volition, stepping to one side and gesturing toward the sitting room with a mock bow. 

"Much better," said Voldemort. The hooded Death Eater grabbed Hermione by the arm and followed him as he swept into the room. Draco was caught somewhere between sickness and fury. He despised being under the Imperius curse more than anything in the world. "Won't you sit?" Draco heard himself ask.

"We prefer to stand, thank you," Voldemort replied to his own question, "but you should rest, by all means. You've been busy." He seemed to be enjoying his game immensely, which did not bode well. Draco realized he had perched on Hermione's wingback chair. He risked a glance at her, still being held at wandpoint by the Death Eater. She appeared remarkably calm for their situation, though she kept peeking nervously at the hallway leading back to the bedrooms, where Harry was.

Voldemort was watching him, saying nothing. Draco made every effort to keep his thoughts as shallow as possible, to think about anything but the Boy Who Lived Again in the back room. Finally the Dark Lord chuckled.

"Draco, Draco, " he sighed, circling the chair slowly, "You should learn to answer when I call you. Did you think I wouldn't have you followed? That we wouldn't notice the inordinate amount of time you've been spending with an Auror? Carelessness, Draco, will cost you your life."

Draco laughed harshly, surprised that he could with the Imperius in effect.

"But first," Voldemort continued, ignoring him, "I would like to know exactly why it is you so enjoy the company of this Mudblood bitch." He glanced disdainfully at Hermione, who managed to contain her anger at being called something so degrading.

It occurred to Draco that the Dark Lord had not mentioned Harry. If Harry could not sense Voldemort, then the connection must have been severed in the other direction, as well. With any luck, Harry would realize his weakened state and not try anything stupid. That meant that Draco had to do something stupid to be sure Voldemort was occupied. 

"Go to hell," said Draco, looking Voldemort directly in his beady red eyes. Hermione gaped at his brazen reply.

It evidently surprised Voldemort, as well, because he paused in his pacing and regarded Draco with one raised eyebrow. He lifted his wand.

" _Crucio_ ," he said, and Draco was immediately on the floor in agony. The sound of Hermione's protests and the Death Eater's warnings for her to settle down registered faintly. After what felt like an eternity of being curled in a spasming ball, the pain stopped. He lay panting on the floor, ears ringing and lip stinging where he had bitten through it.

"What are you doing with the Mudblood?" he was asked once more. Draco spat blood from his bitten lip on the Dark Lord's shoe. Voldemort looked almost bored when he repeated the curse and Draco began writhing again on the floor.

There was a sudden pained noise from above him, followed by a wand clattering to the floor in front of Draco's face. His pain ceased abruptly. The Death Eater was yelling something, as was Hermione. Draco grabbed the wand in front of him with creaking, sweaty fingers and managed to turn around.

Hermione had seized the Death Eater's wand and forced him into a corner, but both were far more interested in the standoff between Voldemort and the once-late Harry Potter. 

Harry was standing behind Voldemort, gripping the Dark Lord's wand arm. Smoke was emanating from Harry's hand on Voldemort's arm. The acrid smell of burning flesh reached Draco, and he swallowed hard to avoid gagging. 

"I watched you die," Voldemort hissed. The more he struggled to free himself from Harry's grasp, the more ash flaked and floated down to the floor. Trying to pry Harry's hand away led to his free hand smoking, as well, before he wrenched free. He clutched his still-smoldering arms to his chest, watching Harry like an enraged animal.

"You tried that once before," said Harry coldly. "It didn't work that time, either."

Voldemort held a hand out toward Hermione and the terrified Death Eater. " _Accio_ wand," he said, and the instrument leaped from Hermione's hand to his. She had her own wand out within a second, but the Death Eater was too terrified to move a muscle, anyway.

Voldemort pointed the wand in Draco's direction. "The third time is, as they say, the charm. _Imperio_."

Draco felt the curse overtake him like a wave of nausea. Not again, he didn't want to do this again.

"Stand up." Draco fought the command as best he could in his weakened state, but only succeeded in slowing his movement. He was aware that Voldemort was hiding behind him, the smell of burnt flesh clinging to his robes. Tears threatened to leak from Draco's eyes. 

"This is familiar, isn't it?" said Voldemort, his voice triumphant despite the pain still audible in it. He laid a charred hand on Draco's shoulder and smiled as Draco shuddered. "Now, Draco, there's no need to be afraid. You've done this once before, haven't you? Surely you can do it again." 

Harry watched them without expression. He made no move to get out of the way as, through Voldemort's commands, Draco raised his wand and they voiced the Killing Curse simultaneously.

A streak of green light hit Harry and ricocheted into the wall. In the momentary confusion, Harry lunged forward, shoving Draco aside before pushing Voldemort to the ground. There was an unearthly screech and a wet, crunching noise. It smelled of sulphur.

The Death Eater took the opportunity to flee while Hermione fanned the smoke out of her face and coughed. "Are you alright?" she asked, going to help Draco up off the floor. Draco struggled against her, eyes wild.

"Is he...?" he asked, trying to stand. "Oh, God, not again. Not again."

"You can't kill someone who's already dead," Harry said from over Voldemort's limp body. Draco finally succeeded in standing on shaky legs and pulled Harry into an unsteady embrace, despite the fact that Harry was covered in gore and a little grey in the face.

"I thought I'd lost you again," he said. Harry smoothed Draco's sweat-soaked hair.

"I'm right here. I promise."

As they pulled apart, Draco kicked something that rolled along the floor with a wet slap. He froze, not looking down. "What was that?"

Hermione swallowed. "I think," she said, sounding queasy, "that was Voldemort's heart on my carpet."

"That's what I thought it was," said Draco, and sat down with Harry next to her.

"What happened?" Hermione asked at last.

"I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think my connection with Voldemort was severed when I died. I couldn't sense him, and he couldn't sense me."

"So you could sneak up on him," Draco added. "I was hoping you'd lie low. I had no idea you'd..."

"What? Eviscerate him?"

"Lovely," said Draco.

"It just sort of happened," Harry shrugged. "Like in First Year, with—"

"—Professor Quirrel," Hermione finished. An idea had struck her, and she clutched Draco's arm tightly in her excitement.

Draco squirmed under her grip. "If your hands and your brain are connected, would you mind not thinking quite so hard?" he said. Hermione flushed.

"Sorry," she said. "It just all makes sense. Harry, Voldemort had difficulty touching you because of the protection your mother gave you, right?"

"Right," said Harry. "But I don't remember it being quite so...effective before. It burned, but not enough to..."

"Eviscerate him?" Draco repeated. Harry looked sheepish beneath all the blood.

Hermione smiled. "That's because you've got twice the protection now."

Draco looked up suddenly. "The blood," he said.

"Exactly. I wanted the blood of the enemy for the potion, but you ended up being an enemy and someone who loves him. It made you that much more powerful, Harry."

Harry stared at her, then Draco. "Then if killing Voldemort required that kind of power, I never could have done it unless I died," he said.

"And we brought you back," added Hermione.

"According to the prophecy, the sequence of events had to go in that order," said Draco. "So you were meant to be killed and resurrected with the uncanny strength of the undead to complete your destiny."

"You make it sound like a B-movie," Harry muttered, standing. "Come on, let's get out of here. It's giving me the creeps."

Draco rolled his eyes but followed suit, holding out a hand to help Hermione up. He held onto it a minute and said, "I'm sorry I doubted you. It was nice working with you, Hermione."

She smiled. "Let's not make a habit of it, shall we?" 

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I don't know if I should be thankful or insulted," he replied.

"What I mean is, you held up your end of the bargain. I owe you some deleted Ministry files. With your record clean, and Harry being dead as far as the rest of the world knows, you should be able to get some rest."

Harry smiled. He went to embrace her, but thought the better of it because of all the blood. She shook her head and hugged him anyway.

"Thanks, 'Mione," he said roughly. She held him at arm's length and smoothed his hair.

"You should return to normal within a few weeks," she said. "Let me know if you're still breaking things by then."

Draco, too, gave her a hug. "Any advice from the good Doctor Frankenstein?"

Hermione glanced briefly at Harry and said with a straight face, "If he gets out of hand, find a chainsaw."


End file.
